Girl Crush(ed)
by Diablolita
Summary: A little snippet of fetus!Emison. Mostly Alison's psychology. One-shot(?)


**A/N: I don't really know what this is tbh? Just a creative writing blurb to get me back into writing. I'm obsessed with Emison right now but I've been disappointed with most of the fanfics I've found; they're all either AU or OOC which I'm not all that into. Anyway, this is some fetus Emison but I haven't watered down Alison's character: if you like fluffiness you probably won't like this. Obviously she's not evil or anything, but she's as vicious and manipulative as she came across before her "death", no more and no less.**

 **But I do hope you like it! It was kind of fun to get into Alison's mind, but I'm definitely glad I don't live in there.**

* * *

Sometimes Alison fantasizes about Emily.

They aren't normal fantasies though, the ones Alison has about all those fleeting men who capture her attention for a flash before the pan turns cold. But she's more than astute enough to recognize that those were closer to blueprints than fantasies, a game plan meant for strategy and conquest.

( _Run into him after his pick-up game wearing tight jeans and a low-slung top. Lie and say it was a coincidence. Date him for six months straight and suck his social capital dry; show up to parties on his arm, wear his jacket, memorize his favorite songs, bond with him over your shared eating disorders and shitty relationships with your mothers. Wait for him to tell you he's in love with you. Lie and say you feel the same. Break up now that you've surpassed him.)_

But like the men in her blueprints, the Emily in her fantasy usually does what the real her does. She blinks. Smiles. Compliments and admires. But most importantly, she stares. And stares. And _stares;_ much like what the real Emily is doing right now at this moment.

In fact, if Alison were a different kind of monster, Emily would have turned to stone long ago.

She can't decide which Emily she likes more, which she'd prefer to maintain permanence. Real Emily can surprise her, make her laugh, smile, feel legitimate human things. But Fantasy Emily has a string coming out of her back with a plastic ring at the end, and by simply giving it a pull, Alison can make her tell the truth.

 _Yank. 'You're amazing.'_

 _Yank. 'You're more beautiful than anything and anyone.'_

 _YANK YANK YANK. 'I love you I love you I love you.'_

It's a different sensation, being wanted by another girl. A new experience. Not the staring, of course; Alison is more than used to being stared at, had been stared at since she first started developing some cleavage at the oh so wonderful age of thirteen.

(And before that, really, she'd have to admit that some men weren't patient enough to wait for pubescence to stare. And that wasn't so great. Even for someone like her, it wasn't...it wasn't great.)

It used to bother her, the stares. Used to make her stomach curdle, her eyes burn, her heart beat wrong and jumpy, back when she was too young to curl her own eyelashes, much less her fingers into fists.

 _Grew up way too fast, that girl;_ people sometimes say about her now, the "girl" rolling giddy and hateful off their tongues like any other four letter word.

As if she ever had a choice.

It was everything she was, everything she still _is_ : a being shaped by the reactions of the un-fairer sex. (The boys on the playground, of course, the ones that pull pigtails and taunt nastily but cry in the corner of the field when you make fun of them for having dads who didn't care enough to stay. But then there were her brother's friends. Middle school boys, high school boys, college boys. The fathers of her school-friends. Her father's law partners.)

So over the years she reformed herself, made herself impenetrable; weaponized their own lust and became the controller, the powerful.

 _Do my bidding, bitches, and maybe I'll let you lick my heel._

It's the only way to live, really.

Except now she doesn't know if she can live without it.

"Uh, stare much?" she says with one eyebrow arched. She snaps her fingers in front of Emily's face, breaks the trance. "Are you, like, stroking out?"

But Alison's smirking and she's just teasing, it's all in good fun, really, it is, but she says it with just an edge of a threat; the kind of voice you use to make people look twice at you, horrified that they've made some kind of irredeemable faux pas, the one that makes people desperately want your forgiveness even if they've done absolutely nothing wrong.

It's one of her faves.

Emily stutters and looks down at her hands. "Wha-What are you — I was just looking at the picture behind you."

Sure you were.

Alison doesn't even turn around to look. She knows it's the same picture of her family on vacation that's been there for years, dull and nowhere close to stare-worthy, unlike herself.

"Right," she intones, sounding wonderfully derisive, and flips a page in her magazine.

15 Ways to Please Your Man!

1\. Barbecue every night for a week — he'll get a kick out of watching his girl grill his meat!  
2\. Stop complaining so much — he'll feel eternally grateful about your silent compromising.  
3\. Watch sports with him — even if you hate it, he'll appreciate you taking an interest.  
4\. Let him be in charge — guys love being in control, so keep him happy by giving him the reigns at least 6 days out of the week.

 _5\. Lay on your stomach every time he enters the fucking house_ — _he'll love having his own personal doormat!_ Alison thinks.

"You wouldn't believe this article, Em. I feel like I just stepped out of a time machine to the 1950s."

Emily hums wanly but ignores her. Turns a page in her math book without looking up.

Eyes narrowing, Alison prods Emily's side with her big toe, digs into the warm skin of her hip that's revealed just a little because her tank top had ridden up and if there's something charged in the touch, if there's a small shock that susurrates up and then down her spine it doesn't mean anything at all, really —

Emily makes a kind of grimace-y smile but still refuses to look at her, clearly still offended.

Bitch.

Alison glares at her for another minute, waiting for her to look up or reply. She doesn't. And Alison suddenly...

She wants her to stare again.

Just... Just for the attention, of course. She's a bit loath to admit how much she requires attention, how alive she feels being at the center of it.

When she was little, her parents' friends would always ask her in that condescending, high-pitched baby voice who her favorite Disney princess was. Most girls, normal girls, say Cinderella, Snow White, Ariel, Mulan. Maybe Belle if they're boring and passive and like to read and want to feel like that makes them special somehow.

But no one could ever accuse Alison DiLaurentis of being a normal girl.

 _"Tinkerbell," she'd say, and the wives would laugh and laugh, poking out their fleshy tongues sponged over from martinis and shrimp cocktail and anti-depressants. The husbands would stare and stare, their eyes glazed over from scotch and lechery and entitlement._

 _"Because she's blonde and perky like you?"_

 _And for some reason that made Alison want to seethe, to spit poison and hell-fire like every other beautiful thing with innards that are rotten through, because no, you horse-teethed sperm dumpsters, she likes Tinkerbell because she spends most of the movie trying to straight up murder Wendy for daring to usurp her position as the alpha girl of Neverland. Alison admired it, how the jingling little fairy cared so much. And because Tinkerbell will die without applause, without attention, without love, which made Alison feel something hollow in her chest, but in a good way, a kindred way._

Even in her youth, she really, really understood that.

"God, I love your hair," she says suddenly, casting the magazine aside and reaching out to caress one of Emily's locks. She slides a thick strand down to the ends, watching Emily watch her hand. "All the girls are so jealous of it. You should hear Spencer moan on and on about you, about how you think you're sooo hot." This is a lie, but she's sure Spencer has probably implied it at least once, if not to her, to someone. Not that it mattered.

"As if it's your fault her hair is all limp and mousy and she's built like a twelve-year-old boy."

Emily ducks her head and tries not to let herself giggle at Alison's cutting words. "That's crazy. Spencer's so pretty."

Alison shrugs. "Some girls have the saddest self-esteem issues. So she can be a real wench sometimes. But don't worry," she smiles and puts warmth into her eyes, still twirling Emily's hair. _I have you wrapped around my little finger..._ "I always stick up for you."

Emily smiles and looks up again, and the open reverence, the adoration, the _devotion_ in her puppy-dog eyes almost takes Alison's breath away.

And then she thrives in Emily's love, she laps it up, feels like she's made out of magic and starlight, sees herself through Emily's eyes and sees nothing less than perfection.

Plenty of people have loved Alison, but she loves Emily's love the best. Nobody looks at her the way she does.

And even if she is a total lesbo who's probably just thinking about her tits, it's a nice moment.

"Thank you," Emily murmurs, that glowing look still on her face.

But it's a bit like looking directly into the sun, and Alison can't handle it for much longer. She might go blinder than Jenna. (Ha.)

"Let me braid it," she says, sitting up and making a spinning motion with her index. "I just learned how to fish-tail and I need a test subject."

Emily smiles timidly and obeys, turns her back to her. Good girl.

They pass the next few minutes mostly in silence, except for Emily's grumbles of complaint when Alison pulls too hard on her hair, until she finally gives Alison's knee a slap with her palm once she figures out she's doing it on purpose.

"You're a sadist," Emily laughs after receiving another sharp pull at the back of her skull and hearing Alison cackle.

"Beauty is pain, darling," she purrs in response.

There's a pause, and Alison can tell that Emily is holding her breath.

"...Then you must be in pain every day," Emily says hesitantly, and Alison realizes in an instant that she's trying to flirt with her.

She knows she should nip this in the bud, should start talking about a boy that she's planning to hook up with, maybe bash Ellen DeGeneres for a while. Because, yeah, she let Emily kiss her, but it was...it was _charity_. And, fine, okay, maybe a bit of curiosity. And, no, it wasn't _awful_. But...

But fairy-tales don't end with the princess running off with the manager of the local Home Depot so they can get married in matching flannels and buy cats together. They end up with a prince, the perfect man who isn't _like_ all the rest; who won't fuck her and leave, who won't hold her too hard or kiss her too possessively or speak down to her like she's dirt. The one who gives her a Happily Ever After.

If Alison DiLaurentis is anything, she is a story. And that story doesn't include Emily, doesn't include any _girl_.

Probably doesn't include anyone.

And maybe it's this thought that inexplicably makes her throat clog, but instead of shutting this down like she should, Alison quietly replies, "Yeah, I guess I am."

Emily cranes her neck to look behind her, but Alison forces her head forward again once she sees the concern etched all over the other girl's face. That's not the kind of look she wants. Pity is for ugly girls. "What do you mean?"

Alison says nothing as she returns to braiding, then replies, with all the flip and panache of a girl who looks the way she looks and acts the way she acts and _is_ the way she _is_ , "I _mean_ my heels are a bitch to walk in, duh. Which you would know if you wore something besides sneakers every day."

Emily's shoulders relax, and Alison feels more relaxed too.

"They're _comfortable_ ," she argues, and Alison can hear her grin in her words. "And practical."

Alison snorts. "So are crocs and size 14 jeans, but you don't see winners wearing them."

She's almost done with the braid when she hears Emily mutter, "So you think I'm a loser?"

Alison sits back on her heels and takes hold of Emily's arm, pulls her back around to face her. The girl looks...heartsick. Which is as much an aggravation as it is a testament to Alison's skills to subtly undermine.

Because damn, she was good. Alison hadn't even been trying to hurt Emily's feelings and the girl's already mush at her hands.

Emily never hides her emotions; they're all right there, on her proverbial sleeve, in her guileless expression. So ridiculously, foolishly, inexcusably open. Alison has an odd desire to just stare at her friend's face for a while (although she reasons that it's probably just to admire her own handiwork). She could break down someone's self esteem without even meaning to. And she knows exactly how to build it back up the way she wants it built, like nailing down a stencil for flowers to bloom and killing off the excess that don't fit the lines.

Reform, revamp, revise.

As God made man in his own image, so shall she.

"Not with me, you aren't," she says emphatically, her voice dropping an octave. "We're the ones at the top, Em, don't forget that. We set the trends, we decide who's cool and who's lame. How to look and where to go and who to be with. You and I are a fucking force to be reckoned with. Your name and loser can't be breathed in the same sentence, because _we_ are attached," Alison smirks. "And you know there's no one who can beat me."

Emily flutters her eyelashes, and Alison feels a strange little flutter too. She can't explain it.

"I really..." Emily looks down and tenderly places her hand over Alison's, who twitches and almost pulls it out of her grasp. Almost. It's just that it's so...intimate. Alison doesn't really _do_ intimate. Not the real kind anyway.

But she doesn't pull away.

"I'm really glad you're my friend," Emily continues softly, staring down at the bedspread in an attempt to willfully ignore the fact that they were practically holding hands, and that _she_ was the one who instigated said hand-holding. It was almost funny; all the closet walls had come tumbling down, but Emily was still pretending she was inside of one. The almighty power of denial.

"I...feel like... I'm just so lucky that you're in my life."

Alison means to only let one corner of her mouth turn up in response, she means to play it coy, because it would be fun and it would be amusing and she so very much likes to be amused; but instead she grins, a real, wide grin that stretches across her face that's too soft at the edges and too kind and too _honest;_ because she cannot help it.

And that terrifies her.

To her core, to her bones.

Not being in control.

So she shakes herself, pulls her hand away. "Jesus, Emily," Alison rolls her eyes and giggles meanly. It comes out sounding high and anything but genuine. "You are such a cheese-ball. You've really gotta stop watching Disney Channel movies."

Emily's smile falters, and her eyes flicker with hurt. Alison can't help but take pity. "C'mon, turn back around, I'm almost done. I knew this braid would look sexy as hell on you."

She swallows her lips, blushes and does as she's told.

It's sweet. Almost...touching.

 _Somebody with a heart might melt_ , Alison thinks, and it was supposed to be funny, but it just makes her feel lonely.

"Will you... Will you tell me about Paris again?" Emily asks in a small voice.

There's an uncomfortable, pin-pricking feeling behind Alison's eyes as she gathers the remaining loose strands of Emily's hair, and she has to clear her throat in an effort to get rid of another damn clog. Honestly, when did she get so goddamn _sentimental_?

"It's an absolute must that we go in the summer," she tries to focus on France, on her escape, on her lie. "That way we can wear bikinis under our sundresses and get all golden while we take walks along the Seine. We'll look at art that's _almost_ as pretty as we are. Eat poached pears and chocolate croissants in the Parisian gardens... Smoke pink cigarettes with those fancy cigarette holders... Wine tasting in the afternoons and cocktails at night..."

She's just starting to get lost in the story of her own words when her phone buzzes beside her and she jumps in response, a new habit, one growing increasingly more frequent.

Another blocked number. Of course.

Alison braces herself before she flips it open.

 **Ooh la la, Paris sounds absolutely to die for, m** **on chéri! But lesbi-honest, will you really live long enough to see it?  
** — **A**

Alison really can't breathe for a second. Her heart stops, and then triples in speed.

She feels hot all over, itchy. Alison jumps to her feet, crosses the room and slams her window closed, shuts the blinds so quickly and forcefully dust rises against the muted sunlight and then resettles.

"Ali? Are you okay?"

Alison surreptitiously feels her face to make sure she's smiling before she turns around, takes a shaky breath, and then simply returns to her position on the bed as if nothing had happened; her chest feeling as if she had swallowed a bowling ball. "Oh, just felt a little drafty in here."

Willing her fingers to stop trembling, she goes back to Emily's hair. "A-and we'll shop at all the best boutiques," she hates the tremor in her voice, because she's trying so hard to conjure this image as if she really was as mystical as she seemed; but she's not a sorceress, really, not even a soothsayer, there isn't actually any magic in her words. As much as she tries to pretend she's not — she's just a girl. "And we'll go dancing, of course, at the most expensive, fabulous clubs..."

"We should just stay there," Emily says courageously. She's always less shy when she's not actually looking at Alison. "There's no reason to come back, right? Like...like you said. Just you and me, in Paris."

Alison stares at her phone again. "You would do it?" she breathes, so quietly, so quietly there was no way — no _way_ anyone else could hear, even if they had a mic inserted into the back of Emily's neck. Which would be crazy, insane. Paranoid.

She touches her fingers to Emily's nape and presses in. Hard.

"Uh, ow?" Emily laughs nervously. "What are you — Do _what_?"

Emily's skin is warm and familiar and dips at her touch, bends to her will, just like the rest of her. It's comforting.

But Alison can't keep the urgency and panic out of her voice, because she still can't _think_ ; she just can't play the part she was born to play right now because she's just so fucking _scared,_ "If I asked, you'd drop everything and run away with me? Just go?"

Emily turns, whipping her new braid around her shoulder. "Of course," she says, looking into Alison's eyes, and the honesty is so brutal it hits her like a sledgehammer. "I'd go with you anywhere."

Alison stares at her friend. Stares at her phone.

It's so tempting.

But she couldn't do that to Emily. Deep down, in the bottomless vacuum that she calls a soul, she knows that Emily is the only pure thing in her life. Maybe she always will be.

And she...she can't spoil her. She can't turn her into this twisted, empty thing that she is.

She has to save her.

So...she has to do this alone. As always.

Alison curls her lip, lifts her chin, does what is expected of her. Does what she has to do. What she's always had to do. "You need to stop being such a follower, Emily. That's gonna get you really, really hurt one day."

Emily crumbles before her, and Alison vaguely wonders if Emily would be able to put herself back together without her.

And who would Alison be if she didn't have Emily to break?

"I didn't...I was just..." Visibly trying not to cry, Emily hides her face as she begins gathering her things, her voice thick and constricted. "Um, I think I have to go. My mom is...um..."

Alison stares coolly at her friend who is quickly falling apart at the seams. It's unfortunate, but she knows that it's necessary pain, and she doesn't regret it.

Until Emily looks her in the eye, trembling all over, bleeding and fierce and hurt and _captivating,_ "Why do you have to be like this? I'm so sick of... Can't you just be the same for more than two minutes? It feels like—like I'm getting whiplash just trying to keep up with you for an afternoon. I care about you so much and you don't even—"

Her voice cracks at the end, and she casts her water gaze to the floor. It's the closest Emily's come to actually standing up for herself.

And Alison absolutely panics.

She keeps it inside, of course, internalizes it. It's what she's best at; hiding any feelings that might ruin the story of herself.

Because she really doesn't _want_ to hurt Emily. It happens sometimes, more often than she maybe notices, but she's not actually a sadist. Inflicting pain isn't so much a goal but an unintended consequence. A frequent unintended consequence.

So Alison acts instinctively, and rises from the bed to throw her arms around Emily to pull her close, repent.

Her hair smells like mint. Their bodies press tightly together. It's warm all over.

There's a part of her brain that's shooting out bubbly little endorphins because she's being nice to a friend, and not just any friend but to _Emily_ , who's practically an unending well of affection, but there's still another part thinking about A; knowing that a word is never just a word and an embrace is never just an embrace, because she can't afford to lose any more of her soldiers. Because everything has a purpose when it's you against the world. And she hates it, _hates_ it; that she thinks like a general instead of a teenager. That there was no real art to the war she's been drafted in.

"I'm so sorry," she murmurs softly against Emily's ear, and the girl completely melts in Alison's arms.

It was all going very well, in her opinion, until Alison's mind worked too fast for her, as it sometimes did, and she pulled back with vague ideas of a plan, of a reflex; it was a quickly learned acclimatization that whenever she feels Emily emotionally pulling away, that's when they should kiss. Keeps her close, keeps her happy. Keeps her looking at Alison like rainbows come out of her ass.

And if Alison's heart is beating a little too fast, if her insides are all butterflies hurtling headfirst into her rib cage and smashing their brains again and again into her bones, that's just the anxiety, just the paranoia, just the fear of A, of course. Of course.

"W-what are you doing?" Emily stutters as Alison takes her hand, but her eyes immediately drop down to her lips, so she must know _exactly_ what Alison's doing. Not cool; coy was _her_ thing.

But Alison smiles, in a rare, uncalculated move, because she genuinely feels like it, and steps closer. "Nothing. Just..."

Emily's eyes slowly close as if her lashes had suddenly become unbearably heavy, and Alison takes a moment just to fully appreciate how _scary_ pretty Emily is — the kind of pretty that launches ships, starts wars, attracts mayhem and destruction and doom (if she only knew how to use it; which, thank God, she doesn't). The kind of pretty that lures sailors to their deaths. That's the thing about mermaids; they're like Tinkerbell, dainty and sweet-looking, make lovely sounds, but if you can ever bear to tear your gaze from them you'll see the pale corpses they keep as pets; flesh hanging off their bones in chunks, faces swollen, eyeballs distended, their discolored arms reaching for the bewitching sirens even in death. The best horror stories are the ones where you don't realize what genre you're in until it's too late; and that's the real power of beauty. It's a shimmer, a mirage, and as long as it is intact, it will hide every single one of your sins.

There's a chill running through her body as Alison takes a breath and leans in, and it's in this moment, when they're so close that the ghost of Emily's mouth is already on hers, warm and gentle and soft and nothing like she's ever had before, everything that she's needed and absolutely nothing that she's wanted, that she realizes how much this means to her. Her and Emily, Emily and her.

She _does_ want to kiss her. Maybe more than she's ever wanted to kiss anyone.

Which means that she can't.

Not now.

Not ever.

Her throat feeling so tight she might very well suffocate, she changes directions and gives Emily an air kiss on both cheeks, just like they do in France.

"Sorry. I think I'm moody 'cause I'm hungry," she says, and there's a hideous vulnerability in her words, it's so transparent a lie that she's ashamed of it. But she's starting to have visions of bugs scuttling up and down the walls of her room, all rigged with microphones and recorders, disappointed in the _Girls Gone Mild_ action. She has to get out out _out_. Or even better, she wants to be hidden, wants to burrow inside Emily and —

Not like that! Not like that!

"Let's go get smoothies. On me," she finishes just a touch shakily. Her smile is heavy and lop-sided, but rigid as ever. She's safe behind it.

Emily tries to harden. Alison can see it, can see her try to close herself off, but she _can't_ and that's...

That's something Alison will never understand.

"Fine," Emily eventually clips, and it hits Alison like a _fuck you_.

* * *

 **A/N: So I really can't decide if I want to extend this into a two-shot or not. I originally _was_ going to make this a two-shot, this part named BD (Before Death) and the next chapter AD (After Death) where Alison is back from on the run and her emotions have matured, so she's not just this catty vessel of a human who doesn't know how to actually feel anything real. But I dunno if I have the energy lol. It's up to you guys, I guess; if I get a lukewarm response I'll just mark it as complete, but if you really want more I can continue it. Sorry I didn't mean that to be blackmail-y but? I'd pretty much just be writing it for fanservice because I'm good with leaving it like this. **

**Also: I know this fic comes off as kinda man-bashy at parts (although I didn't even make up that 15 Ways to Please Your Man article - I literally just lifted them from Cosmo magazines. Seriously.) but it's just because 99% of the men in Rosewood are pedophiles or murderers or both lol. So this is really about what it would be like trying to just be a girl in a town where you're basically constantly preyed upon - especially for Alison Dilaurentis, who's cursed/blessed with the power to make everyone want her. Plus she has a psycho stalker after her and her family is Game of Thrones levels of fucked up. That's going to make falling in lesbians very hard, even though it's what we all want! (But seriously, I don't think I've ever been more obsessed with a ship ever? I never thought I'd be one of those people chanting "endgame endgame endgame" but...ENDGAME ENDGAME ENDGAME!)**


End file.
